


Every time your hand fits in mine

by Fuuma



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Hurt Illya, Hurt Napoleon, Introspection, M/M, Sentimental, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26016835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuuma/pseuds/Fuuma
Summary: Napoleon clenches his teeth, on his tongue drops of red iron and in his throat boluses of saliva and breath that mix and suffocate him. He has heard that sound, so clumsy that it's irritating, and he refuses to accept it as his own, just as he refuses to let go of the grip of the hand that is holding him and slowly dragging him down from the roof.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 3
Kudos: 90





	Every time your hand fits in mine

**Author's Note:**

> ( I don't often write in English (and we can all understand why), I apologize for any mistakes )

The scream shattered one night troubled by the bullet waving - German charges emptied over their heads. A guttural sound, broken, an animal noise that exploded between their eardrums.

Napoleon clenches his teeth, on his tongue drops of red iron and in his throat boluses of saliva and breath that mix and suffocate him. He has heard that sound, so clumsy that it's irritating, and he refuses to accept it as his own, just as he refuses to let go of the grip of the hand that is holding him and slowly dragging him down from the roof.

The rain dilutes the bloodlines that outline the contours of the tiles. Underneath him some of them are broken, terracotta nails pierce his side and he swears - he swears! - that if they've ruined his shirt, he will come back from that bunch of over-pumped Nazi Kartoffelmampfer[1] and avenge it with his own hands.

The thought ripples his lips. The smile rises crooked, it rises dead, killed by a moan and a hissing breath that tastes like perforated lungs. _No, come on, it's just a couple of broken ribs, he's seen worse._

He's seen...

"Cowboy, let go."

A laughter commits suicide between Napoleon's lips; he disguises his cough and gurgles blood dripping from his broken lip. Fragments of mask ruin on the ground, gaps open, cracks in which the pain under the face of the inveterate playboy is revealed, the fear behind the indifference of someone who always has a backup plan.

Not this time.

The arm in tension trembles and the rain gives no rest, fat, pissed-off treacherous drops beat on their heads, on their backs, on their skin. Napoleon had perfect hair until ten minutes ago; now they blind him by getting into his eyes.

And everything slides down a little bit. Him, them, Illya's hand.

"What's your plan, Peril?" He won't leave it. Should he lose his arm, die or go home dragging himself on his knees in the dust and mud like the worm he swore he'd never be again... He won't leave his hand. "You're made of iron, but you're not immortal. From this height even Mother Russia's supersoldiers break their necks."

Napoleon talks way too much and he regrets it. He wishes he could take his words back, along with the oxygen they took away.

He coughs, he swears, he slips.

And Illya is hanging. A dead weight – a _massive_ dead weight – rocking on the empty streets of a Paris in black and bloody red, broken arm and all the rest.

If Napoleon still had a voice to waste - his lungs are burning and he will soon suffocate in his own blood - he'd tell him that it's his fault, because it's okay to be superhuman, it's okay to be the KGB's protégés, but did he have to be that tall? That big? Did he have to weigh as much as the gargoyles who, crouching on Notre-Dame, mock them for being born without wings?

It's his fault, because being his partner doesn't give him the right to get his arm broken defending him. It's an idiotic choice, which led them where, huh? Outside a goddamn antiatomic bunker, to be smashed to the ground by the questionable architecture of the city's rooftops.

Another scream cracks his eardrums.

Napoleon wonders how he managed to shout so loudly when his mouth and throat are overflowing with blood; but he looks down and sees Illya, lips wide open in a ferocious verse, eyes focused on his _– hold on, hold on –_ and the screech of jagged bones rising.

Illya swallows pain and with a broken arm hoists himself up on the ledge, where under the heels of his boots he finds a solid surface.

Napoleon still has the Russian's hand between his fingers and the reasons for holding it have just changed.

"Go to Paris," he gurgles "city of love and sin... they said... nothing is more suitable for you..."

Illya glimpses him, his fingers jerk. "No one ever said that. Our presence here only for business, you know that."

Napoleon tightens the grip for him; that must be the signal that pain has finally found a way around whatever insensitivity program the Russians put in Kuryakin's head.

"Peril... as much as I love to argue with you... do you mind? I'm trying... to process..." he waves his free hand, a careless gesture that was supposed to make a circle in the air and instead succumb to gravity halfway through.

The rest of the sentence gets caught between his eyelashes, along with the rain. Nothing the Russian can't imagine: a few jokes about their status, about the microchip he wanted to deliver directly into Waverly's hands, to persuade the man to give him a raise - or to refund his now-to-be-thrown dress.

And if Illya is as smart as he thinks he is, he also knows he has to go, because those behind them are dogs in uniform who've smelled the blood trail.

Napoleon knows it too, but for some reason, he can't let go of his hand and Illya doesn't do anything to get out of the grip: he bends over him, instead, and covers him with his own body, with the rain dripping from his clothes and hair and breaking around the American's face, without touching him anymore.

\- - -

The scream is a distant echo, a dot of light in the night that goes out when the silver moon drips like dew on Napoleon's eyelids and the man opens his eyes.

The tightening of a bandage around the chest and the head swollen with air, but empty of thoughts, means only one thing: hospital & morphine.

He's alive. _Well, that's good. Napoleon Seventy-five - Old Lady Zero. It'll be for the next time._

The air in the room is warm, fragrant. On the nightstand there's a vase full of pale roses. They're neither red nor white, and with the little light filtering through the window Napoleon would venture a yellow. That's the color Gaby would choose.

When he makes a move, the grip on his chest brings him back to square one. Beyond the bandages, there's an arm holding him and, lying behind him, there are blue eyes pointing at the back of his neck and Illya who woke up with him.

 _Damn_ , he thinks. _Napoleon twenty-four - Peril twenty-five._ And who knows how much longer they'll keep going before the day comes when one of them fails to save the other.

He smiles.

_But today is not that day._

His hand goes up Illya's forearm, runs down the sleeve of his hospital pajamas, gets around the canula needle connected to the IV and makes sure it doesn't get stuck in his own. "How'd you do that?" he asks and twists Illya's fingers with his own, squeezing them around his chest.

Illya shrugs his shoulders and rubs his chin against the hollow of Napoleon's neck. He's got a tiny little smile, one of those communist smirks that just proved the excellence of Russian methods.

"I did nothing. Gaby came by helicopter to pick us up, found us in time."

Napoleon's got a better look at him.The darkness plays tricks on him: Illya's smile isn't a smug smile; he's shy and happy, because Napoleon still believes he can do miracles and this is what he refers to when his sigh blows on the American's neck and his voice goes through his skin, reaching directly into his veins and plunging into his blood to make it boil. "But while a certain cowboy passed out, I did all the work: loaded onto the helicopter and delivered microchips. Americans are like their toys: _unreliable_."

Napoleon nods and feels a laugh on his tongue; he expects papillae invaded with metal and instead there is only air and the sensual note of his voice. "You mean you gave the microchip to Gaby and she took care of it?"

A moment of silence is what precedes Illya's snort: "...precisely."

"Remind me to give her a gift when we get discharged."

"You remember yourself."

Napoleon laughs, the ribs don't hurt as much anymore - maybe because from the neck on down he feels almost nothing, just spots of heat where Illya's healthy hand is carefully placed. "There's no need to be jealous. I'll make you one too."

"No, thank you."

"Would you prefer a fruit basket?"

"I prefer your silence." The Russian mumbles, but his lips rest on Napoleon's. A dry kiss that tastes like morphine. "I prefer your life..."

Napoleon traced the bones of Illya's hand back to his own.

"You have it, Peril. You have it..."

They both have it. They hold it in each other's hands.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] potato eating Nazis.  
> [2] I've vague memories of an interview with Hammer and Cavill, in which Henry talked about Napoleon's background and the fact that his father was an Irish immigrant janitor in America. (Could I not build my headcanon on that too? Bitch, pls!)  
> \----  
> Wrote for Il mio profilo@C'era una volta un prompt - prompt di Bacinaru: TMFU, Napoleon/Illya, Illya cade oltre il bordo del tetto e l'unica cosa che gli impedisce di capitolare giù incontro a morte sicura è la mano di Napoleon stretta attorno alla sua. E Napoleon non ha intenzione di mollare la presa. Poco importa se ha un paio di costole rotte e il dolore è così intenso da fargli quasi perdere i sensi.


End file.
